


Nobody

by Slantedlight (BySlantedlight)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 12:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13570500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BySlantedlight/pseuds/Slantedlight
Summary: The consequences of an op aren't always straightforward...





	Nobody

**Nobody**  
by Slantedlight

The kitchen was dim when he finally got up, grey light seeping through the plastic venetian blinds, spilling onto the counter just brightly enough that he could find the kettle, water and coffee without opening the day further, letting its brash light sweep everything aside. 

Whilst the tangles were still there, fluttering, maybe still in reach.

The house ticked around him, and he opened the drawer, found a spoon, opened the jar of Red Mountain. Sugar - three spoonfuls - _you could do with sweetening up_ \- water whilst it was still boiling - milk - _sloshing over the side as usual_ \- stir the granules into a whirlpool, hate it when they float around like that - … _you turning sentimental, Bo…?_

There was a sudden crash outside, a clattering and shouting, and he snapped to attention, heart pounding before he remembered - it was bin day, they were late again. _Five thirty they were usually there, so that he was dragged awake in time for a run before…_

Gone again.

He sniffed, took a mouthful of coffee, and reached out to pull up the blind. A wall of cold air rolled towards him from the glass, and the glare of morning made him wince, so that he retreated to the living room with its warmth of carpet, faux-velvet sofa, and gas fire. 

Turn the dial, hold the ignition button down, listen to the _click-click-click_ as it tried, and then the soft _whoosh_ as the flame caught, blue then pale orange, settling back to blue and flickering gently. The room smelled comfortably, familiarly, of gas for a moment, and he took another mouthful of coffee, curling into the sofa, bare feet tucked under him.

How did he know how to do these things when he didn’t know anything else?

It was nearly eight - no wonder it was light outside - but it was Saturday, so there was no rush to work, to Cowley, or the hospital, or anywhere else for that matter. The day stretched in front of him, he could do anything he wanted… _le weekend…_

But what did he _want_ to do? Now that he finally had some time to himself it felt empty, echoing. The grey light was shining through an equally grey drizzle, so that taking out the bike that leaned against the garage wall seemed less appealing than it had when he’d been planning it through the relentless tests and questions. Same with running, going for a walk… but he was starting to feel his confinement, as his bruises had healed he’d felt the return of his energy, had begun to want _out_ all week…

Or something. He’d been missing something.

There was a scratch of loose threads on his jeans, a bare thumbnail that was nearly a hole, and he picked absently at the cotton. Half his clothes seemed to be torn somewhere, or mended, or spotted with rust-coloured stains that spread into his dreams, so that he tossed and turned the nights away. Maybe he should scrap the whole lot, go into town, go shopping…

Another jolt of noise - the doorbell this time - and he closed his eyes a moment to get his equilibrium back, feeling his breath come sharply in his chest, pulse racing again. Probably the postman… but no, who knew he was here? He hadn’t ordered anything in his short week of residence, and it wasn’t his birthday… 

Well, maybe it was.

The bell rang again, less startling this time, and in a kind of raucous tune that pulled at him, so he drained the rest of his coffee, put the mug down on the bare coffee table in front of the sofa, and padded through to the hallway, turning on the lights as he went. 

The peephole stretched the man’s face back on itself, distorted him into a giant head tapering down to tiny feet, hands tucked into brown leather jacket in between. He had dark hair, looked serious - he was good looking, if you liked that sort of thing… engagingly modest… Good looking?

He reached out and flicked the intercom, moved away from the peephole just long enough to say “Yeah?” then peered through it again for the response.

“I’ve brought those files you needed,” the man said, “As arranged.”

Something to do with Cowley then - that was the code he’d been given, even if the man’s hands were clearly empty of any kind of file. 

… _ze microfilm_ …

He undid the security chains, strangely relieved to have the day taken out of his hands after all, opened the door and stood back to let the man in, knowing he would wait until the door was closed, the chains safely in place again, before he spoke. All the others had.

Sure enough, this man remained quiet, but instead of saying anything once they were safely locked in, he slanted him a quick glance, winked at him, and led the way to the living room as if he knew the house as well as…

The others had all told him his name when they arrived. It drove him spare, but he needed it, a junkie waiting for his fix every day, uncertain and restless until…

He shut the door behind them, caught the man’s eye. “Coffee?”

“Not if it’s that Maxwell House crap they usually have in.”

He shook his head, unsurprised when he was followed into the kitchen. They all did that - he wasn’t sure if they were supposed to be keeping a close eye on him, or whether they were the kind of mates who’d do that anyway - until now he’d thought it must be the former, but something about this one... 

Kettle - sink - water - coffee in the mugs - milk from the fridge… He could do _this_ , why didn’t he even know his name…? And why didn’t this one tell him?

Before the water had boiled, he was even more sure that something was different this time. The man had moved closer to him, when he looked up, he was watching him more intently than any of the others had, even Cowley.

“Couldn’t get here before,” the man said, “Been up north on a job.”

He nodded, as though that made any difference to him, and the man twisted his mouth wryly in a half-smile. 

“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” he said, “You don’t know who I am.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know who _I_ am,” he admitted. “Can’t hold onto my name longer than a few hours…”

Water in the cups - _one sugar, lots of milk_ … He held it out for the man to take it, watched him blow on it, sip cautiously, then take a deep, satisfied mouthful.

He thought maybe the man would tell him now, now that he’d given in to the humiliation of having to admit that he couldn’t even remember his own name, but still there was silence, vigilance. 

_One sugar, lots of milk…_

His breath caught. “I got that right though, didn’t I?” he said, hope surging. He’d known how to make someone else’s coffee - that meant something, that must _mean_ something…

When the answer came, it still wasn’t in words. 

The man lifted his free hand, reached out and curved a finger along his face.

He stood still, staring at him, breathless again, not sure what he should be doing, what the man expected, except… 

The man’s hand slid to cup his cheek, paused to let him… he didn’t know what, to let him move away maybe, or put a stop to it, but… he couldn’t do that. Then he was being pulled closer, and the man’s arms were around him, face buried in his neck so that he could feel breath huffing across his skin, tickling at his hair, and the only thing he could do was hold him back, feel his own arms tighten around the solid body.

The man pulled away slightly, but only far enough to turn his head and kiss his throat, his jaw, and Doyle remembered how much he loved this, loved the way the man’s lips worked their way to meeting his, how much he loved kissing him. 

“Ray…” the man whispered against his lips, and Doyle pulled them together even more closely, letting his hands slide down the man’s back, over the familiar contours of his arse, so that he could feel the hardening length of him, the surge that sent to his groin, his heart. Bodie smelled of the cold day outside, of his new leather jacket, and of _Givenchy Gentleman_ , and he smelled of Bodie.

Eventually they slowed their fervour enough that they could stagger from the kitchen, through the living room with its blazing gas fire, and into the bedroom, tumbling to the mattress together, struggling with shirts and belts and jeans and pants until they were naked, until Bodie’s body was under his, and he could slide down and take Bodie’s cock in his mouth, hands holding tight to that wonderful arse. Before he lost it though, Bodie tugged at him again, manoeuvred them so that Doyle was the one underneath, on his hands and knees, wanting nothing more than Bodie’s thick cock inside him, wanting Bodie behind him, his own arms braced against their fucking, hard and…

Doyle let his head drop forward and he squeezed his eyes shut, tried to purse his lips against crying out, but he gasped anyway as Bodie pushed into him, fast and smooth and exactly what he’d been missing, wanting, needing, again and again and… _there!_

 

When he came to again, the man was still half sprawled across him, a comfortable weight, and a comfortable ache in all the right places. Their faces were close, he focussed carefully on long eyelashes, dark against pale skin, on sleep-soft lips, on…

“Think you’ll know me again?” the man asked, voice lazy, somnolent. He opened his eyes, and they looked at each other for a moment. When he spoke again, the man was serious once more. “They didn’t tell me until last night what had happened - couldn’t get here any quicker.”

He nodded, heart pounding.

“I’m sorry…” The man drew closer, kissed him again, gently, until he could feel tears rising in his eyes, had to pull back and look away so that he could ask what he needed to ask, so that he didn’t disgrace himself even more. Their legs were tangled together, their breath mingled, but…

He opened his mouth, drew breath, and admitted it all over again.

“What’s my name?” he asked, voice a husk of itself, knowing that he should know, that he’d been told, he’d been told a dozen times before.

The man didn’t speak, didn’t say anything again, silent as he’d been when he first stepped into the flat, just watching him, the weight of his gaze as solid as that of his body.

“I remember the explosion,” he continued, “I remember the ambulance, and the hospital and every bloody minute of Cowley’s questions and the pictures they keep showing me - all of it. So why don’t I remember…?” 

“Me…” the man whispered, “And you.”

He swallowed, turned his face back again. “Yeah.”

“You knew me just now,” the man said, with another twist of a smile, a tease back in his voice, “Unless you’ve been doing this with all the strange men who’ve turned up at the door.”

_…don’t talk to any strange men…_

“Just you - that I do remember.” An important thing to remember, he knew that.

“You got the coffee right.”

He nodded. “But…”

Before he could finish, the man pressed closer again, kissed him again, reached down to brush his fingers over a nipple, and then to nuzzle at his throat again, so that ridiculously he felt it all starting over, his prick stirring, and…

“Ray…” the man paused to whisper in his ear, “ _Ray Doyle…_ ”

… _Bodie_ …

 

 

_I’m nobody! Who are you?_  
Are you nobody too?  
Then there’s a pair of us - don’t tell!  
They’d banish us, you know.  
\- Emily Dickinson 


End file.
